


Untitled Two

by KatieHavok



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (TV 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Based On A Tool Song, Companion Piece, F/M, Graphic descriptions of suicide, Hopeful Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Pining, Pretentious, Song Lyrics, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, contemplation of love, introspective, wistfulness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieHavok/pseuds/KatieHavok
Summary: He knows, just as I know, that this is the only way.*Companion piece toUntitled One, from Lydia's POV.





	Untitled Two

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING FOR SUICIDE. DO NOT PROCEED IF SUICIDE AND/OR SELF-HARM ARE A TRIGGER FOR YOU!**
> 
> This fic is old. It was originally written and published in the year 2001 or so and was lost to the ether of the internet for many years. But now it's back, like mildew and mold and Beetlejuice, and it remains one of my favorite pieces from that point in my life.
> 
> Firmly 'toon verse, with Lydia being the age of majority.

*

How is it possible for one event, one moment in the continuum of time, to change everything? How can one touch, one forlorn embrace change the way an entire world can be perceived?

I realize now just how irrational life can truly be.

_What's coming through is alive._

_What's holding up is a mirror._

_But what's singing songs is a snake_

_Looking to turn my piss to wine._

Strange, really; solitude has long been a buffer to reality. Yet now, reality is in such sharp relief to the world that to deny it would be impermissible folly. Depression, solitude; a soothing balm to a soul that has long sought solace in things most would consider arcane, bizarre, or just downright macabre. And yet, just who searches for this solitude: me, or him?

_They're both totally void of hate,_

_But killing me just the same._

And now, my two oldest and dearest—if immaterial—friends can no longer be of any support. Loneliness and solitude will not give me the peace I desire. Just the simple craving for him, _him_ , is enough to steal my breath away, to catch my mind on poignant remembrance. With every shred and fiber of my being and soul, _I remember_ , but that memory also brings no peace.

How can something so small change things so much? Will I never again see my friends, those haunted shadows that followed my days, in the same way? Will I never again long for their caress, replaced by _his_?

Will I ever want them to return, or will they—finally and irrevocably—drown in the magic and mystique that is he?

_The snake behind me hisses_

_What my damage could have been._

_My blood before me begs me_

_Open up my heart again._

I am unsure; that much I can, at least, admit to myself. I am unsure of where to go. Stygian eyes, pure shades of emerald and gold, haunt me; even now I can see them before me, spilling over with newly professed emotions, for once wiped clean of all traces of gleeful malice. And yet, that memory is also, to a degree, tainted.

I am afraid; that is also, I suppose, to be expected. I have been touched profoundly by the very embodiment of death, and yet managed to escape unscathed. Unscathed; a gross understatement.

I was not simply touched by death: I now know it intimately, know it in ways that would be scandalous at best, illegal at worst. I feel no remorse; only this strange, clinging fear. Not for him, of course. He _is_ death, in every sense and essence of the word. His heart no more beats than indignant Kraken will ever regain what is rightfully his. He does not sustain his existence by the blood in his veins or the air in his lungs; rather, that is _my_ burden to bear.

I do not fear losing him to death.

Rather, I fear losing him because he _is_ death.

A parody, that, and still, no remorse in sight. I will never regret our actions. Nor will I ever look at them as anything but extraordinary; only now, our new found relationship must be secret on both fronts. The problem would not be his world; they'd sooner see him fed to a Sandworm than know the intimate details of his life—at any rate, they simply would not care.

The problem is my world.

Should anyone who still breaths find out about this, the consequences would be far more than I, in my present mental state, can bear. Necrophilia—that is, in every sense of the word, the action I have performed. Yet, even as I write this one word a thousand times over upon the tablet of my mind, it still has no meaning. The old adage goes that love conquers all; perhaps it may even conquer this boundary, though presently I see no respite in sight for my intolerable waxing.

_And I feel this coming over like a storm again._

_Considerately._

He has just left, and—God help me—I miss him more than I ever thought could be humanly possible.

_Venomous voice tempts me,_

_Drains me, bleeds me,_

_Leaves me cracked and empty._

_Drags me down like some sweet gravity._

Deep within me, a traitorous voice whispers, _you were wrong_ , and even my sheer force of will cannot silence it. Never before have I been so torn, and yet—completely whole. It goes against every law of the universe that I should feel so, but I cannot help it.

The union of pale flesh brought about within me a new sensation, a feeling of fulfillment and completion I have never before known. How can a simple act of love, an act so many people take for granted, so few left for those who deserve it, change so much?

_The snake behind me hisses_

_What my damage could have been._

_My blood before me begs me_

_Open up my heart again._

That part of me, well-buried, sepulchered in concrete wound 'round with barbed wire, still whispers.

_(You were wrong.)_

No more wrong than he.

_(This farce will last no longer than you deem fit.)_

It is not my decision, but _ours_.

_(You know what must be done.)_

Yes, and that knowledge hurts more than even the thought of loss. I have opened my heart, only to have the door slammed shut once more. Not by his hand, but rather my own.

_And I feel this coming over like a storm again._

And still, _still_ , I long for his arctic touch.

_I am too connected to you to_

_Slip away, to fade away._

_Days away I still feel you_

_Touching me, changing me,_

I know what must be done, to correct the wrong.

_And considerately killing me._

But—and may whatever Deity resides Below forgive my lack of resolve—I cannot.

_Without the skin,_

_Beneath the storm,_

_Under these tears_

_The walls came down._

I don't have the strength. I cannot do what must be done, and yet...

_What is, is what must be._

And now, in light of this new self-confession, that treacherous voice falls silent.

_And the snake is drowned and_

_As I look in his eyes,_

_My fear begins to fade_

_Recalling all of those times._

He is here now; I can feel him behind me, beside him. He has not moved, nor made a sound, yet I still sense his presence; it almost feels like a cold winter's sunrise. Reality, in the space of a few seconds, has stretched taut. With him here, now, I can feel the strength, the power, flowing from him. His strength fortifies my will, and within a single breaths time, everything is obvious.

So stunningly, horribly obvious that I must laugh to break the tension; otherwise, the resolve I have discovered in the past second will crumble before the face of logic.

_I could have cried then._

_I should have cried then._

I hear a muffled gasp as he sees what rests in my hand; I've been holding it for a long while now—hours? days?—but I am myself only just truly noticing it. The fine point, the smiling razor's edge, wink at me in the greasy light of the room, alternately calling me and mocking my crumbling will.

The path before me is finally clear. I know what my next action will be, and I know that it is, truly, the only way.

Even as this thought processes I raise my hand, the blade hovering over the defenseless wrist for a moment before ruthlessly hacking at the fragile flesh. The sting goes unnoticed by me; I have turned, and in doing so, lost myself in his gaze. He makes no move to stop me; the love is still in his eyes, burning fiercer than the sun could ever even imagine, but it has been overlaid with a form of sadness I've never seen. Not the sadness of regret, or remorse, or even loss; just the sadness of one who knows what is inevitable.

He knows, just as I know, that this is the only way.

_And as the walls come down and_

_As I look in your eyes_

_My fear begins to fade_

_Recalling all of the times_

_I have died and will die._

_It's all right._

_I don't mind._

I feel the blood pool at my feet, sticky and hot with the life flowing freely from my mauled wrist. Blackness tries to invade my vision; I battle it with all the tenacity I ever mustered in life; to lose sight of his face now would be impermissible folly. The blackness fades to grey as the world takes on a new light. I can feel the earth spinning beneath my feet, can feel everything taking on a clarity I only imagined.

This thought is accompanied by my loss of balance. I fall into him, my solid weight crashing into his chest. He catches me without effort— _he always said I was too thin for my own good._ I feel a giggle rise hysterically in my chest. Strange that a thought like that should occur now, on the precipice of death.

I lift my head warily; the full force of mother-gravity has me now. Everything is too heavy, too bright, too much. Only his eyes save me, claiming me by casting out a life-line through the blinding light. The sadness in his orbs remains—he's no more happy with this than anything else he's done. No doubt he feels to blame in some way.

I lift my head, trying to formulate some meager human words of solace and comfort. The world spins away frantically instead; I hear my name from his lips, a wrenched sob tore from some deep abyss of emotion I would not—until very recently—thought he possessed. I try to smile; that too is futile.

I try to call his name and in doing so, I slip away.

_I am too connected to you to_

_Slip away, to fade away._

_Days away I still feel you_

_Touching me, changing me,_

_And considerately killing me._

And now I'm flying. Colors and lights flash past, but they go unheeded. I am alone, or so I think until I feel the slightest brush of cool air at my shoulder— _wing?_ —and feel, rather than see, his smile.

I turn my head. Gravity no longer exists—there is nothing save the light, and him. He has me now, his hand clutching me close and pulling me into him, _into him_. I can feel him speaking, but for now, the words mean little. I think he's telling me to not be afraid, that everything will pass soon and things will return to as close to normal as they can get for those who no longer live. I am not afraid; rather, I am elated. I have found what I have sought all my life, finally found the love and acceptance I so craved. Just strange that it should come in such a macabre way.

I have found him, and now that he is mine, I will never let go.

Turning fully, finally, I smile.

And together, wings or fingers entwined, we fly.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr @katiehavok, if that's your thing.


End file.
